Lips That Touch Mine (15 page)

"Beautiful, isn't it?" his mother said,
entering the kitchen.

"Everything Dad made was beautiful."

"It certainly was," She stopped beside Boyd,
but instead of cutting the pie, she stroked her hand over his back,
a loving gesture she'd performed too many times to count, "What's
bothering you?"

Years of experience had taught him not to try
to skirt the question, His mother always knew when he was carrying
a heartache or a problem, whether it was a lost puppy or a hurt
ego.

"Guess I'm missing Dad more than usual this
year."

"Me too," she admitted with the same deep
sadness in her voice Boyd felt in his chest,

He looked down at his mother, the most
loving, stable person in his life. She had loved him through his
childish rages and shenanigans. She had comforted him a thousand
times. She'd buried her disappointment when he left the mill and
became a saloon keeper. He'd had many lovers, and though his mother
had cautioned against it, she'd never manipulated his conscience to
direct his decisions. She'd forgiven him everything, and loved him
despite his many faults and failings. She'd even stood up against
her fellow church members and refused to march against his
saloon.

He'd taken it all for granted.

Regret welled up inside him as he pulled her
into a hug. He kissed the top of her head, which barely reached his
chin. "I'm sorry I've asked so much of you, Mother. I haven't meant
to be selfish, but I know I have been."

She tipped her head back and gave him a long,
hard look. "Of all my boys, you've been the least selfish. I don't
know why you think otherwise. What's weighing on your mind
tonight?"

"I haven't done enough for you. I've asked
for too much and given too little."

"Boyd Benjamin, where did you get that
fool-headed idea? You never ask me for anything."

"Maybe I should have." His lowered his arms
and leaned against the sink. "I never asked what you wanted when
Dad broke his hip. I only thought of my needs when I refused to hug
him. I didn't know my refusal to accept his death would ask too
much of you and Dad."

"Is that what this is about?" She sighed and
laid her hand on the pie safe, her loving gaze studying him. "If it
weren't for you, your father would have given up. After you stormed
out of the house that day, refusing to let him quit fighting and
give in to the disease, your father wept a river because he felt so
loved."

"But he suffered so much after that."

Her frown lines disappeared, and her face
grew serene. "That last year was one of our best," she said
quietly. "We didn't waste a single moment. Because of you, we had
time to prepare ourselves to be separated."

"I couldn't let him go," he confessed
hoarsely.

A soft smile touched her lips. "He loved you
with all his heart, Boyd. His last breath was a laugh over that
little carving you left in the water closet for him."

Boyd couldn't recall anything from that day
other than running out of the house with angry tears blurring his
vision.

"You don't remember?" she asked with a
surprised chuckle. "It was an extremely detailed carving of a nude
woman. You'd left her standing on the sink basin as a joke for your
father."

The memory rushed back like a dam bursting
open. Boyd had whittled the statuette during the hours he'd spent
at his father's bedside. He wouldn't tell his father what he was
working on, only that it was a surprise for him. From the day they
had mounted the back bar at the saloon and drunk their first ale
together, Boyd had left his boyhood behind. He talked to his father
about manly things like carving, receiving hours of instruction
while sitting at his bedside. They talked about timber costs and
running their sawmill. And they had talked about women.

At fifteen, Boyd had been wild for them. His
preoccupation amused his father to no end. So Boyd had whittled his
youthful idea of the perfect woman, and left the big-breasted,
full-hipped statuette on the water closet sink as a joke. He knew
it would make his father laugh. And his father, who had grown
frighteningly weak, had desperately needed a diversion from his
pain.

His mother slipped her warm hand over his
knuckles. "Your father died with that carving in his hand. I made
sure it stayed in his hand when we buried him."

A torrent of grief rushed through Boyd and
burned his insides.

"You didn't ask your father to fight his
battle alone," she said, unaware of the battle Boyd was fighting
with the emotions clogging his throat. "You were at his side every
day, cheering him up, making him laugh, giving him a reason to keep
living. You were his strength. And mine. You brought light to those
dark hours, and your father died knowing he was loved—by me, by
your brothers, but most of all by you. That's all any man can hope
for. You've never asked for anything, Boyd. You've always been the
one to give the most."

Her words made him hopeful that he would
someday be able to view his past in a kinder light. He'd buried so
many memories in the avalanche of grief.

"I wish I could have helped him."

"Me too," she said. "But I couldn't protect
your father from that crippling disease any more then I could
protect you boys from painful falls and hurtful comments. I could
only love you and give you someone to hold on to when you were
going through hell. That's all anyone can do."

He nodded, knowing she was right, but wishing
he could have done more for his parents.

She sighed and stroked her hand down his arm.
"I think you have more on your mind than your father," she said,
probing as only a mother could. "Duke suggested that you care a
great deal for Mrs. Ashier. I think he may be right."

Boyd sighed. "Duke talks too damned
much."

"Mrs. Ashier seems like a nice young
lady."

"She is, Mother, but she's not for me. Or
rather, I'm not for her."

"Why not? She seemed smitten with you this
morning in the sleigh. And I've seen the looks you two exchange in
church. What's the problem?"

"I'm a saloon owner. Claire can't see past
that."

"My sight isn't what it used to be, but I
know what I saw this morning. That girl wasn't looking at a saloon
owner. She was looking at a man she desired."

Boyd rolled his eyes. Women saw romance in
everything. He picked up the metal spatula and cut a slice of apple
pie. "Want a piece?"

"No." She tugged his coat sleeve. "Come
here."

He laid down the spatula and followed her to
the kitchen door.

She pointed at Evelyn and Radford, who were
side-by-side on the 'parlor sofa with a sleepy William and Rebecca
flopped across their laps. "Look at your brothers," she said, her
gesture encompassing Kyle and Amelia who had returned to the settee
after supper. Kyle held his son with one arm, and his wife with the
other, while joking with Amelia's mother and Jeb. "That's happiness
and fulfillment." She nodded toward Duke, who sat alone in a wing
chair sleeping like a well-fed bear." That's contentment." She
faced Boyd, "I see loneliness in you, and it breaks my heart."

He sighed and guided her back into the
kitchen. "I'm fine, Mother. I'm not lonely, I'm just pining for
another piece of pie."

She swatted his arm. "Let me put some pudding
and tarts in a basket for you to take home."

A few minutes later she handed the basket to
him, "Gads, Mother, this was supposed to be pudding and tarts, not
a feast for a family of twelve."

"You're too skinny. You need to get yourself
a wife who will cook for you."

"I've got Sailor. Why would I need a
wife?"

A wistful look filled her eyes. "Take another
look in the parlor on your way out."

He did, and all he could think about on the
way home was Claire. Would her presence have made a difference
tonight? Would having Claire in his arms have warded off the
loneliness his perceptive mother had noticed?

Of course it would have. His discomfort this
evening wasn't a matter of him wanting Claire in his arms. The
problem was that a saloon owner's arms would never be acceptable to
Claire.

"As soon as
they locked Larry in jail, I boarded the first available train,"
Anna said.

Claire's heart softened, and she stoked the
parlor fireplace, knowing it would be a long time before bed. Anna
needed a friend to talk to and a safe place to rest for a while.
Claire understood. She was in the same place only a short time
ago.

They talked through the evening, feeling safe
and warm beside the fireplace.

Until someone knocked on the door.

Claire gasped and jerked upright in her
chair. Anna leapt to her feet and they stared at each other in
fear.

"It can't be Larry," she said, but the terror
in her eyes made Claire's heartbeat accelerate.

Who else could it be? No decent human being
would call on someone at ten o'clock in the evening.

Anna followed her to the foyer. Claire—peeked
out the window, but it had grown too frosty to see through clearly.
She only knew there was a man at her door.

She took her revolver from the closet, then
dangled it behind her skirt, praying she wouldn't accidentally
shoot herself in the leg. Her first encounter with Boyd had
revealed her dreadful lack of skill with the gun.

Claire signaled for Anna to stay hidden
behind the door, then she unlocked it and pulled it open two tiny
inches. To her surprise, Boyd Grayson stood on her porch holding a
huge wicker basket that emitted the delicious aroma of turkey and
plum pudding.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, boldly stepping
into her foyer without being invited inside.

"What are you doing here?" she asked,
relieved that it wasn't Larry barging into her home.

"Delivering a basket of goodies from my
mother."

"It's ten o'clock."

"I'm always hungry at this time of night." He
held the basket out to her. "My mother packed enough for a family
of twelve."

"Thank you, but I can't accept this." She
slipped her hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the
carving he'd given her. "I appreciate the gesture, but you know how
I feel about accepting gifts from you."

"It's not a gift from me. It's a gesture of
kindness during the holiday. My mother will be disappointed to know
her hard work went into the garbage."

Claire couldn't refuse without feeling rude
and unappreciative. "Well...thank you, Would you put it on the
desk?" she asked, unable to take the basket from him because of the
revolver she was hiding at her side.

He leaned forward to set it on the desk, but
spotted Anna hiding behind the door. His eyes narrowed, and he
glanced at Claire. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were
entertaining."

"Anna's my...guest tonight." She closed the
door against the biting cold. "This is Anna Levens, a friend of
mine."

He took in Anna's appearance and greeted her
with a nod, but his eyes cut back to Claire. "Are you ladies in
need of anything?"

He knew. Somehow he knew that Anna was taking
refuge with her. His power of intuition and his gentle inquiry
touched Claire.

"I can take a room here tonight, if you
like."

"No. Thank you for offering," she said,
warmed by his concern. "Anna and I will be fine. We have a basket
of delicious-smelling food to eat, a fire to warm us, and I have my
gun to keep us safe." She lifted the revolver to show him.

He clamped his hand over the barrel and
angled it away from his chest. "You really need to get rid of this
thing before you shoot yourself—or someone else."

"It's the only protection I have."

"In your hands, this gun can be more harm
than good." His fingers circled her wrist, and he nodded at the
revolver. "Let go."

She sighed and released her grip on the
gun.

He opened the chamber of the revolver, and
his eyes glinted with disapproval. "This is loaded!"

"I know."

"You could have blown a hole in my
chest."

"Nonsense. I wasn't even aiming at you."

"That is what terrifies me."

Wariness settled in Anna's eyes as she backed
against the desk. "I'll put the basket in the kitchen," she said,
then grasped the handle and rushed to the kitchen.

Boyd sighed. "Looks like you both need
protecting."

Claire straightened her shoulders. "We'll be
fine." She held out her hand, palm up. "Please return my gun."

"I'd rather not."

"If you don't, I'll report it stolen and tell
your brother that you took it."

"Claire, I'm genuinely afraid that you're
going to wound yourself with this weapon."

"Nonsense. I keep it in the closet."

"You have no idea how to handle it. Nor do
you know how to aim it."

"Well, I won't have to do either as long as
I'm not threatened again."

He sighed. "Are we back to that note
again?"

His look stung her conscience. "No. I believe
you about the note."

"Honestly?"

She nodded. She really did.

"Thank you. That's the best gift I've been
given tonight." His gaze shifted to her mouth. "Unless you'd care
to top it with a kiss."

Her heart leapt and she stepped away from
him. "You'd better not have that mistletoe in your pocket."

His lips quirked, but he shook his head. "It
wouldn't work a second time." He nodded toward the closet. "Is that
where you keep your gun?"

"Put it on the back corner shelf." She opened
the closet door and he put the gun away.

When he turned back, he was wearing a frown.
"I assume Anna is running from someone?"

"Yes, her husband. He's in jail for killing a
man. The problem is, Anna doesn't know how long he'll be
there."

"And you took her in knowing this?"